- Aristotle
I perch on the lid of toilet and wrinkle my nose to the hairspray that bogs the air. It is a scent long ingrained in my childhood, but that does not make it anymore appealing. The manufactured mist clings to her curls and sculpts them into place across her shoulders. Her hair is a cloud of darkness once more, appropriate for public. She walks out; we leave.
He smiles as we arrive and adorns her arm wherever she goes. There is a plaid shirt to hide his skin. Plaid. That's a new one. And he's shorter this time. His head of straw has been traded out for dirt, but the pales eyes are left over.
Pale eyes are rare. I've seen the dirt hair with dark eyes and dirt hair with amber eyes and dirt hair with dirt eyes, but never dirt hair with pale eyes.
There was a time when he had dirt hair with pale eyes. I can't remember that one; I was hardly alive then. Those pale eyes belong to me now, though.
We make our way around, her leading the way and him playing the part of escort. It isn't long before we return home. She plays with him a while longer, and I retreat to my room, weak in the stomach.
A wheel turns.
I perch on the lid of the toilet once more and turn my cheek to the nostalgic puff of gas. Her curls lock into place; we head out once more. I expect to see that his eyes have changed, and he does not disappoint me.
Dirt eyes again.
~E
There's something quite unexplainable about this post that's riveting to me. The way you've told this story is haunting and beautiful.
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